Participants:
| Scene Title | Him |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In the aftermath of Pinehearst, Maury Parkman turns for absolution to the one man he expects none from, his son. But at the end of life's thread, a disturbing revelation opens more questions than answers… |
| Date | July 28, 2009 |
The sharp sound jerks Matt Parkman from the doze he'd drifted into. A quick look at the stereo system reveals it to be a few minutes after midnight. More than an hour before the end of Kaydence's shift. And there's someone at the door.
Shit.
Matt pushes himself out of the Lazee Boy as if it were made of sugarglass and stares at the door. He doesn't move any further until there's a second knock, and even then it is with painful slowness. But Matt never just ripped off Band-Aids and the like.
He focuses on the sound of his bare feet on the hardwood floor compared to the sound of them on the carpeting, all in time with the thundering pulse of his heart in his ears. A navy blue bathrobe flutters about his plaid pajama plants like a wool coat would against a fine suit, but the plain white t-shirt pales in comparison to a crisp collar and tie. Still, Matt squares his shoulders and grits his teeth as he reaches out to turn and pull the doorknob.
Closer to the door, there's more sounds with the knocking, labored and wheezing breaths that come along with an abrupt wet cough moments later. There's another knock on the door, but closer to the sound it's so obvious that it's more of a heavy thump than anything else, and low down on the door, like someone kicking it.
When he pulls the doorknob back, there's a dark shape low to the ground the slumps back onto the hardwood floor, landing with a wet slap. In the yellow light of the hallway that spills in to the apartment, the overweight frame of a balding old man covered in blood lands soundly at Matt Parkman's feet. Holding his side with one hand, where his white dress shirt has been stained a deep, dark red along a vicious gash, it is the first time Maury Parkman has laid eyes on his son directly since he left him all those years ago.
"M— Matty," he wheezes out, coughing a strangled breath out as blood continues to seep from between his fingers. A drizzled trail of it leads to where he had slouched up against the door, clearly banging the door with the back of his head to knock. No one saw him come up here, no one buzzed him in, Matt knows how his father's ability works, and he can feel the faint psychic buzz of their proximities to one another, like a pair of silent stereo speakers directed towards one another.
"I— " he swallows back a coppery taste, eyes blinking open and closed slowly. "I'm sorry." For so, so many things.
Despite the multitude of reasons why Matt, or anyone, for that matter, would be perfectly justified in leaving the pathetic carcass that is Maury Parkman to die alone in a hallway, the sight of his father in such a state and on his doorstep is like a kick to the belly for the man's son. It's the last thing he expected to see on the other side of that door.
"Dad," Matt chokes out in shock more than anything else. Is this what he wanted to do with his dying breath? Crawl here and apologize? Matt's frankly too tired and generally amazed to think any different. He reaches to steady the man with a hand on each shoulder before he glances up and down the hallway. "Save that for later," he sputters as he does his best to guide the old man into the apartment. As soon as Maury is in and relatively comfortable, Matt scrambles to pull a first aid kit from a kitchen cabinet.
Having staggered on shaky legs all the way over to where he comes to sit on the floor, Maury leans up against the very same Lazee Boy that Matt was reclining in earlier. His hand still pressed over the wound to his side, partially trying to keep the bleeding from getting worse, partly to hide the very injury itself from his son. "Matty," he still calls him that, "M— Matty, God, I'm— I'm so sorry…" his voice is weak, warbling in its tone, a far cry from the man who stormed out on him when he was a boy. This isn't how their reunion was ever imagined to be.
"M— Matty I— all I was ever trying to do— " he swallows painfully, eyes wrenched shut, "all I ever wanted— I just wanted to protect you. M'so sorry… God, m'so sorry…" His head clunks back against the armrest of the recliner, a shuddering exhalation blowing past his lips as he tries to keep some semblance of composure.
From the kitchen, Matt can see over his shoulder that Maury's in shock. The sheer amoutn of blood loss is staggering, and the drizzled trail he left from door to the floor in front of the recliner is enough to make it clear that what his hand is hiding is greivous.
"I didn't mean— didn't ever mean for this," Maury murmurs, swallowing audibly again as he breathes in sharply through his nose. "God, God I'm so sorry…"
Back with the kit, Matt's own respiratory rate is elevated. "I know," he half-lies, taking a moment to nod vigorously at the man before he physically reaches out to him again. "You've got to lie down, okay?" Matt steps away to grab a throw pillow and blanket from the couch, his mind reeling with an odd combination of first aid training and other, more personally things that have been tucked away in his memory.
"A— Arthur!" You— you told me he wouldn't be harmed! We had a deal!"
"Lie down, Dad," Matt repeats even as he helps his father slide onto his back, the pillow supporting his head. The blanket is quickly rolled up and slipped beneath his feet to elevate his legs and send what blood remains in his system back toward his vital parts. "You can tell me all about how sorry you are and all that after we get that bleeding to stop, alright?" It's hardly a question, and that much is obvious by the intensity in Matt's eyes and voice. Once he has a thick pad of gauze in hand, it's with only the smallest degree of hesitation that Matt moves to gently pull Maury's protective hand from the wound.
It's worse than Matt thought.
Where Maury's trembling hand had covered his side, there is a sixteen inch long gash that has split him open from by his keyney all the way near his belly button. The cut is deep, deep enough that Matt surmises he could slide a finger n all the way up to the second knuckle. Blood, layers of fat cells and skin all comingle in some sick mostly red mess. "M— Matty. You gotta' listen to me… you gotta'." He reaches up with his bloodstained hand, fingers winding into his son's sleeve. "Matty— Arthur's gone, Pineheart's gone… Adam— Adam Monroe— " he winces, swallowing back agains the pain. "God, Matty, I'm so sorry. What I did to you— to that poor girl— I— I just wanted to apologize. I— I'm— " a ragged, pained breath wheezes out past Maury's lips.
"I should never have trusted him, I— I just wanted to keep you safe. Matty…" his fingers grip tighter on that sleeve, "I deserve this." His eyes narrow, neck muscles tensing as the old man tries to lean up, but the pain of his injury sends him slouching back down. "I just— I didn't… I didn't want to go without saying how sorry I am. I never stopped loving you, Matty… Never. I was just afraid— weak— I— " his jaw trembles, eyes watery from pain both physical and not. "Christ I'm so sorry for everything I did to you."
From the look of the wound, how fast it's bleeding, unless Matt gets paramedics here fast, there won't be another reunion of father and son. Just a lot of questions come morning.
A bullet wound. That's what Matt had expected to see. But this? Well, it's just one more thing on what's becoming a long list of questions to be asked later. Later, when Maury isn't grasping at minutes. Mumbling something to himself, Matt presses the gauze and then Maury's own hand to the wound once again and rises to snatch at the phone.
"9-1-1, please state your emergency."
"This is Homeland Security Agent Matthew Parkman at Dorchester Towers, 155 West 68th, room 404. I have a man with a severe abdominal laceration and shock symptoms."
"I've got an ambulance on the way, sir. Do you know how this happened?"
"No, but my department will sort it out."
But of course that doesn't mean a police cruiser won't show up anyway. "Hang in there, Dad," Matt whispers, pulling the phone away from his mouth for a moment as the operator continues to run through her script. His own hand covers Maury's as both a show of support as well as to add more of that much needed pressure to the bleeding wound.
Never in his lifetime did Maury Parkman expect anything other than a cold frown from his son at the sight of him bleding to death on the floor. Never in the long and pained one-way relationship he thought he had since leaving did he think there was hope for him at his own son's hands. He knew he cared for Matt, but Matt for him? If the roles were reversed, Maury isn't inclined to believe he would be so merciful. At that, there's a hesitant smile, for it's proof enough that he isn't his father's son in spirit.
"Matty…" Emotion charges the old man's voice now, where once was just hopelessness, "w— why're you— " the question is obvious, even as he clings to that sleeve, watching his son handle himself with such professionalism, and in the same respect care. He doesn't need to waste the energy enunciating the remainder of his words. Matt knows exactly what Maury is asking.
Why are you saving me?
There isn't much left for the operator to impart, and so Matt is released from the agency relatively quickly. The phone is tossed to the floor and Matt's full attention settles back on his father. All that professionalism is a thin mask that forces pieces to stay in place, and it's transparent when Matt looks straight into that older version of his own face.
And even with professional medical help en route, who knows how much time there is.
"I looked for you," Matt says with some of that same professional calm, but it is noticeably weaker. "For a long time. And then I gave up. I didn't care, because…because of all the things you did." Tears start to well up, but Matt blinks them away and chokes them back with a scowl. Naming all of the things Maury has done, even the major things as of late, won't do any good right now. "But then you got out from under Petrelli's thumb." Who knows if it was Maury's remarkable sense of self-preservation or some greater purpose. "And you came here. And no matter what you did, I…I don't want you gone. Even if you're not here."
There isn't much left for the operator to impart, and so Matt is released from the agency relatively quickly. The phone is tossed to the floor and Matt's full attention settles back on his father. All that professionalism is a thin mask that forces pieces to stay in place, and it's transparent when Matt looks straight into that older version of his own face.
And even with professional medical help en route, who knows how much time there is.
"I looked for you," Matt says with some of that same professional calm, but it is noticeably weaker. "For a long time. And then I gave up. I didn't care, because…because of all the things you did." Tears start to well up, but Matt blinks them away and chokes them back with a scowl. Naming all of the things Maury has done, even the major things as of late, won't do any good right now. "But then you got out from under Petrelli's thumb." Who knows if it was Maury's remarkable sense of self-preservation or some greater purpose.
"And you came here. And no matter what you did, I…I don't want you gone. Even if you're not here."
Fumbling and tired old fingers search for Matt Parkman's hand, letting his grip move to grasp tenuously at his own son's hand once it's found. Dried and still tacky blood mix in the handshake, like some old oath of old times. HIs jaw sets, eyes wrench shut for a moment as prickling lances of pain shoot up beneath his skin. But slowly, when those eyes unhood, there's a look of pride on Maury's face as he looks into the eyes of himself — a self he lost touch with so long ago.
"I… am so proud — " he swallows dryly, teeth clenched together. It's only now that Matt can feel the warmth of blood pooling at his knees, "so proud…" Maury winces, his hand trembling as it shakily holds onto Matt's, "that you didn't turn out like me." The venom there is self directed, words hissed through teeth as that weight of burden is lifted off of his shoulders.
"That's— it's all I was ever afraid of," swallowing dryly, Maury's fingers lose some of th tension with which they wound around his son's hand, "I was terrified— terrified— that— " jaw trembling, Maury's eyes drift back to his son's, "that you'd end up like me. That— that's why I left." He has to get all of this out, has to let everything go. "Matt— " sudden urgency rises back into his voice, his other hand coming to Matt's shoulder. "Matt… what I saw in your girl's head at Pinehearst," a pleading look comes over him. "Those things she saw, the man in her dreams— " a sharp hiss of pain causes his words to cut off, before weakly they return. "It wasn't me," fear, for a moment, comes into Maury Parkman's eyes.
"I'm not her nightmare man…" Maury's jaw trembles slowly, "I've— been watching over Molly— ever since Daniel asked me to." Linderman? "Matty— Molly's not safe," his fingers gain some of their strength back as his eyes become wild. "He's— he's still out there… all I wanted to do was protect you…" There's a thunk as his head hits the floor, too weak to hold it up. His hand slides from Matt's, breathing shallowly and wheezing with each inhalation, a wet gurgling rattle.
The last words that slip out of Maury Parkman's mouth as his eyes close, is a strangled exhonoration of guilt, but the beginning of a far greater puzzle as a new chapter is turned over in the life of agent Matt Parkman.
"Protect you from him."